There and Back Again
by Hannah-1888
Summary: Sequel to 'The Land of Might-Have-Been' and 'Pack Clouds Away.' Severus and Hermione ponder on the reality of their lives and wonder what more there might be. SS/HG.
1. Part 1

**There and Back Again**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

_AN: This is the sequel to 'Pack Clouds Away' and 'The Land of Might-Have-Been.' For this story to make sense, it is recommended the previous two are read first._

**Part 1**

Dear Hermione,

I am writing to inform you that I have recently finished my reading of _Emma_. I feel bound to say this was a blip in an otherwise compelling run of reads.

With regard to the title character, I have possibly never felt less personal attachment or investment. I can honestly say nothing about her circumstances or personality resonated one iota with me. I know you shall bridle and protest that one does not necessarily have to identify with a character to enjoy a story, but, in this instance, I can only say that the primary feeling invoked within me was contempt.

You have presented me with such novels of a bygone age before—novels which, invariably, follow the fortunes of some young woman, but I was not prepared for reading of a woman with such an idle and pointless existence. In fact, the majority of characters were idle; the mere thought of living in such a way makes me shudder.

The plot, I am sorry to say, was painfully predictable—silly, ignorant, self-absorbed girl has an epiphany when she realises her favourite toy (I.e. Mr Knightley) might be taken away from her. How that man could have come to feel any sort of tendresse for such a childish woman, I simply cannot fathom.

The only congratulation I can make is on the author entirely capturing Filius in the character of Mr Woodhouse.

On the whole, I won't give it a Troll, but I won't give it an Acceptable, either.

Yours faithfully.

Severus

* * *

Dear Severus,

I had to read your letter several times as, at first, I had trouble believing the words in front of me. Your complete dismissal (I won't call it a critique) of the story was, in my opinion, entirely unwarranted.

Certainly, Emma is a young and silly girl, but that is not her fault—she has been sheltered too much by those around her. Her situation with regard to her wealth, and, by extension, her social standing, of course seems to us in this day and age very idle and privileged, but that is no real basis for contempt, is it?

It is my opinion that she learns humility in the end—the change in her character is one of the most rewarding themes of the story.

As for Mr Knightley, well, I am sure you do not want a lengthy discourse on _my_ feelings on that matter, but should you ever find yourself in want of one, I'd be happy to supply it.

I would, however, just like to make sure that you recognise the crime you have committed in bashing one of the most well-regarded authors in the whole of English literature!

So, on behalf of Jane Austen, I would like to sincerely apologise for the fact that Emma was _not_ outed as a double-agent, that there were not more twists than a spiral staircase, and that there was no gruesome murder before the conclusion of the plot!

Best,

Hermione

* * *

Dear Hermione,

Jane who?

Severus

* * *

AN: The title _'There and Back Again_,' is also the sub-title of _'The Hobbit_,' by J. R. R. Tolkien.


	2. Part 2

**There and Back Again**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**Part 2**

The light was filtering through her curtains and Hermione stirred in her bed, mentally protesting at the prospect of getting up. Despite her wish to remain in oblivious slumber, however, she knew she must awaken. She knew she must for her mother's sake, if nothing else. So, with nearly automatic movements, she forced herself out of her bed and carelessly threw on some clothes for the day. She did not bother looking in the mirror; she did not give much care for what she looked like—her appearance was even further from her mind now than it usually was.

She trudged down the stairs, feeling like she hadn't slept a wink, though she knew she must have managed sleep at some point. Standing over the kettle in the kitchen, she rubbed her eyes and sought to keep her mind off the eerie stillness of the house. Things were so quiet now—quiet and still.

Cup of tea in hand, she ventured upstairs and stopped outside the door to her parents'—her mother's—bedroom. Taking a deep breath, she gently nudged open the door. Her mother didn't stir when she approached the bed, and unable to bring herself to wake her, Hermione merely placed the cup on the bedside table. Not wanting to leave, she sat tentatively on the edge of the bed with her hands folded in her lap and her head bowed slightly.

How long she sat like that, she wasn't sure, but when her thoughts cleared, she came back to herself and stood, not wanting to disturb whatever slumber her mother had managed to get.

Numbly, she walked back downstairs and sat alone, wondering for the umpteenth time how they were going to manage now.

* * *

'How is your mother doing?' asked Ginny quietly, as Hermione ushered her into her home.

Hermione shrugged as she sat down. 'I thought maybe the funeral would help her, but… She stays in bed for the most part and… well, I can't blame her for it.'

'And you?'

Hermione fought to keep her voice steady. 'All right, um…'

'Hasn't sunk in?'

Hermione shook her head minutely.

'You know,' began Ginny haltingly. 'Time really is a great healer, even if it doesn't seem so right now. When Fred died… well, you know how it was, you were there, but eventually my mother was able to pick herself up and carry on. At the time, I wasn't sure she ever would.'

'Takes time to adjust, I suppose…' Hermione agreed with difficulty, feeling her throat close around the words. 'Tell me,' she continued with a harsh breath of self-control, 'what are you planning for James's birthday?'

Ginny looked sceptical for a moment, but Hermione murmured a few words of encouragement. Anything to take her mind briefly off her problems was welcome.

For some several days, the pattern continued. Hermione would force herself to rise from her bed each morning, though many times she wished to lay there indefinitely. But she knew it was her job to be strong. Her mother slept less as the days went by, and yet she did not leave her bedroom. Hermione would sit in bed with her and sometimes they would say very little, and other days they would talk of the most mundane of topics, both knowing they were only talking for the sake of ignoring what was going on around them. In spite of the terrible circumstances, however, Hermione felt she had never been closer to her mother.

During the quiet times, Hermione found herself thinking, as she had often done during her father's illness, on the nature of her small family. How she regretted that it had taken a terrible occurrence to bring them all together, because oddly enough, those months prior to the deterioration of her father's health had been some of the best they'd ever had. They'd reminded her of the time with her parents before she'd found out she was a witch.

In recent years, she'd come to believe that they'd never been a particularly demonstrative family in the first place. She'd told herself that leaving things unsaid was just the way they were—the way they had always done things. She'd been wrong, though. When she wasn't thinking of facts simply to suit her own theories, she remembered times when she had been young and she had always kissed her mother before going into school—when there had always been moments of physical affection. Times when she would have regaled her parents eagerly of her day—told them everything, instead of nothing, or worse, fabrications.

But when she was older, there had been moments of actual awkwardness between them, and she supposed they'd stuck in her mind more. They'd wasted many years doing their own separate things—living their very separate lives, but she could hope that she had made her father's final months easier to bear, and that would have to be enough, in the circumstances.

She wondered if her parents had ever reflected thus. Almost certainly they had. Not long after she had left Hogwarts and had come home, she had forced herself to address her worries with them, and much had come tumbling out, but there had been no blame. Her parents had been gracious enough to highlight their own regrets, and Hermione had been grateful to see that they did not resent her. From then on, she had accepted there was nothing she could do to change what had passed, but had resolved that things could be different for the future, even if there was now only two of them.

All of her concentration was now on just that—the two of them. Hermione was determined that she and her mother would emerge the other side, battered, but not broken.

One morning, they began a step in that direction. Hermione entered her mother's bedroom to find her sitting up in bed with an uncertain expression on her face. Hermione crossed over and sat beside her, touching her hand. 'All right, Mum?' she asked tentatively.

'I think,' Mrs Granger replied slowly, 'I think I might like to get up, Hermione.'

Hermione stilled and was about question her mother's decision, but managed to stop herself in time. Instead, she nodded encouragingly and scooted off the bed to retrieve her mother's dressing gown. Once ready, Hermione let her mother take the lead down the stairs, and as they descended, she realised she was steeling herself for the moment they would enter the living room.

'Shall I make you something to eat, Mum? Or some tea, maybe…?' She was babbling, but at that moment she had an unsettling feeling of not knowing what to do or of what to expect.

Standing in the doorway, and resisting the urge to wring her hands, she watched her mother sit down and sigh, looking round at the vases of flowers that still littered the room. Her lips suddenly trembled and Hermione felt her eyes burn painfully in response to her mother's upset.

'I'll make some tea,' she said hurriedly, rushing into the kitchen and blindly reaching for the kettle, her breath coming in short bursts.

Away from her mother, she grasped a tea towel and pressed it to her face, naively hoping the pressure would push the tears back inside her eyes.

* * *

Severus pressed the tip of his quill into the parchment, but he could not think of a single word to write. He knew he should write something—he wanted to—but he'd never written such sentiments before, and he did not know how, as silly as that probably sounded. His eyes turned to his bookshelves. Surely in one of those books he must have read of a situation like this? Could he not draw any inspiration from any of them?

He sighed. He would always be found wanting when it came to anything remotely approaching sentiment or feeling. It was surely too late in life for him to learn any different now. He lifted his quill from where the nib had allowed a large black blob to seep into the parchment.

A solitary ink splot; a better metaphor for his capabilities he could not have envisaged.

He thought about delaying the task in the hope that inspiration would materialise, but already he had left it longer than he should have. No, the note would have to be sent tonight.

For Merlin's sake! Why was it he could be such a wordsmith on most occasions, and yet, when it mattered most, he was a mute? Struck dumb? Maybe he should imbibe an Eloquency brew? No… that would not help. He might end up writing a verse, Merlin forbid.

He should be grateful, selfishly grateful, mind, that he only had to scribe his words of sympathy and not verbalise them aloud. How ever would he have managed with that? Still, he didn't feel particularly grateful, in fact. He felt, despite himself, that he should like to see her.

Just write what you feel, he told himself; it was that easy. Except, of course, he often did not understand how he felt.

_Just write!_

The moment when Minerva had given him the news surfaced to the fore of his mind, and he concentrated on it. And with a complete look of focus on his face, he scratched out whatever words would come to him, sincerely hoping that whatever they were, they would make sense.

When he read them back, he was not entirely satisfied, but he knew they were the best he could do—he had faith that she would understand that too.

He sent the note off with an owl, and with that done, Severus returned to a recently familiar state of mind—boredom.

It wasn't often that he allowed himself the luxury of being bored, but lately, boredom had ceased to be a luxury for him to indulge in. It was now rather more a frustration. Ordinarily, when he sought to stave off boredom, he would read. It had always served him well in remedying the tedium. But even reading had lost its shine sometime during the past months. Well, maybe that was an exaggeration, but certainly, there had been times when he did not have the interest to pick up his book and read.

It must mean that he missed the little set-up he had created with Hermione. It must mean that he had come to enjoy their little discussions more than he knew. Maybe they would continue them once again, in the future, but it was uncertain. It had to be nearly eight months since they'd put their hobby on hold. He couldn't blame her putting a halt to it—she'd had more important things to occupy herself with.

Besides, it hadn't ever been the same having a discussion through letters.

Grimly, he trudged up to Minerva's office. The next best thing to alleviate his boredom was to find someone to irritate. He entered the office unannounced and ignored the subsequent pursing of her lips.

'Have you okayed my request for new Potions equipment yet?' he asked brusquely, sitting down in front of her desk, studiously ignoring every single greeting he received from the portraits on the wall. Their affronted huffs were very gratifying.

Minerva put her quill down and frowned. 'You gave it to me this morning, Severus.'

'Your point?'

Her eyes widened behind her glasses. 'My point is that I have more to deal with than just _your_ whims!'

Severus smirked inwardly, but found he did not have the impetus for further teasing and he let the matter drop. Thwarted, he was going to leave when Minerva spoke.

'Have you heard from Hermione?'

He stilled. 'Should I have?'

He hated it whenever she brought that particular subject up. She'd confronted him several months ago over the fact that she repeatedly saw Hermione's owl delivering letters to him, not to mention their apparently 'chummy' behaviour when Hermione had still been in the castle, and had demanded an explanation.

Merlin, he hated the word 'chummy.'

He wasn't embarrassed to be known to be friendly to certain people, he just disliked noses in his business.

'If you must know, I have not had word from her in a while.'

He'd swallow his tongue before he reciprocated the question, even though he wished to ask. She'd not written to tell him personally of her loss. He wasn't offended by it; he had confidence she would contact him when she wanted to.

'I had a letter from Mrs Potter last week. She tells me Hermione is as well as can be expected.'

The sentiment was not especially adequate enough for his curiosity, but it would have to do.

'In other news,' Minerva continued, 'she tells me little Lily is a bouncing bundle of—'

Severus pushed his chair back with a screech.

A dry chuckle was all he heard as he disappeared down the staircase.

* * *

Hermione pulled out the folded up parchment from her pocket and had nearly unfurled it completely when her mother appeared in the doorway to her bedroom.

'You've been hiding up here all morning, love,' said her mother gently.

'Oh, sorry mum, I was just… thinking…' It was always a relief to see her mother these days—to see her looking a modicum of her old self. There were always moments, of course; moments when things would suddenly get on top of her and the tension would break… Hermione knew because they happened to her as well. Moments when she would become oddly paralysed and all she would be able to think was, _my father is actually gone_.

'What's that you've got there?' Mrs Granger sat down next to her on the bed and nodded to the parchment. 'A letter from Harry? Ron?'

'No… just someone from Hogwarts.' After the words left her mouth, she frowned. She should say more, she realised. She should _talk_ to her mother. 'It's from Professor Snape—Severus, actually. He sends his regards.'

Her mother only nodded, and Hermione could tell there was something particular on her mind. In only a few short moments, she had her answer.

'I've been thinking, Hermione; when will you go back to teaching?'

Hermione clutched the parchment tight in her hand and cleared her throat. She'd not discussed the state of her career much, wanting, instead, to avoid the inevitable questions that would be raised.

'I don't know, Mum. I'm not in any hurry, to be honest.'

She'd not told her mother that she did not plan to go back. She knew she shouldn't hide such a thing from her, but her mother, she knew, would bridle at such a decision, and Hermione felt she should get the matter straight in her own head first. She did miss Hogwarts. She missed… Well, it was obvious from the fact she carried his letter around with her, to look at whenever she felt she needed to, that there was something else she missed.

'You should at least go and visit at some point. I'm sure your friends there would like to see you.'

Hermione smiled. Her mother didn't know she'd spent the majority of her free time at Hogwarts cosseted in some armchair with a book, as opposed to socialising. Her mother didn't know that, actually, she wasn't very good at socialising. But of course, she did have friends at Hogwarts, nevertheless—she liked to think so, anyway.

She tucked her letter back into her pocket. 'I'd like to see them, too.'

She would, but not now.

So, her mother was looking a little better lately, and Hermione was immensely relieved to see it, but it was trying to keep busy that was the problem—trying to keep one's mind occupied instead of dwelling on all that had passed. Not that she wanted to avoid thinking about her father, or about Hogwarts, or about anything, but sometimes it was good to forget for a while.

Lately, she had started taking her mother with her to Grimmauld Place, and she did so that afternoon.

Her mother liked her friends, and the prospect of seeing the children was always a pleasant one. And while Hermione observed a sincere look of enjoyment on her mother's face while the young Potters' pranced about excitedly, Hermione found herself feeling rather troubled.

There was guilt, for one, at the sight of her mother's often curious gleam of wonder in her gaze whenever one of them used magic. Her eyes would follow the simple levitation of the newspaper as Harry Summoned it, or the autonomous scrubbing of the dishes by the dishcloth in the sink. She realised that she'd never performed a great deal of magic for her parents. She'd not been allowed to while underage, and once the war had finished, she'd moved out and in with her friends and there had just never been much opportunity. However, in theory, her mother should be used to magic by now, shouldn't she?

Hermione also had a sneaking suspicion that she had always wanted to avoid using magic in front of her parents. Maybe it had been some sub-conscious attempt maintain a sense of normality between herself and her parents—that, actually, they weren't so very different, after all. But it was a lie, of course, and she could see now she had been misguided. Her parents would have embraced her magic fully, she was sure, had she given them the chance.

But it wasn't solely that issue which troubled her. In the eight months since she had left Hogwarts, she had probably seen her friends more times than she had in the last few years. And while she always loved to see them, the idea that she no longer quite fitted in with their… set, was only repeatedly reinforced. How could she join in conversations about children when she had none of her own?

'James can't wait to be at Hogwarts being taught by his Auntie, you know,' said Harry proudly, smiling at her.

Hermione could only smile weakly in reply. They all assumed she was going back soon. She realised that they had all come to see her living her life for ever more at Hogwarts. And while she may not have had any plans to the contrary, why did no one ever ask her if she had a different vision for the future? Why did no one ever ask her if she had any hopes and aspirations?

She knew all of theirs.

But she was being maudlin; she wouldn't know what to say, even if they did ask. What could she say? _My most secret aspirations I've taken from a book?_

She was wrong, however, to think that no one wondered. When they arrived home that night, her mother spoke to her pensively.

'Do you ever want to get married and have children one day, Hermione?'

Hermione's hand hovered over the cups of tea she was making, feeling a momentary burst of surprise. 'I… I don't know…' With a little sigh, she forced herself to continue. 'I don't think it's a matter of want, to be honest. But it's fine, you know.'

She turned to find her mother looking at her contemplatively. 'Teaching other people's children is enough,' Hermione added, with a little laugh, but her mother's expression did not change.

'Well, you are young yet; we never know what is around the corner, do we?'

'No, indeed,' Hermione agreed sombrely.

She did not explain that, privately, she considered age had little to do with her situation. She did not write herself off because she was nearing thirty; she wrote herself off because it seemed… oddly practical. She had to accept _now_ that things were meant differently for her. To be confronted with a lifetime of regrets and missed opportunities at the end of her life was a prospect she did not want to face.

At that moment, more acutely than ever, she wanted to be back at Hogwarts, where her existence, her personality, her demeanour was… the norm. It was easier at Hogwarts to ignore what others might think of her, because she knew she belonged there. Did her mother think she was unusual—_lacking_—because she did not go out and find herself a spouse like the rest of her peers? Did she wish for a daughter who could provide her with more to fill the void of widowhood?

Did she wonder why her daughter had never had a proper meaningful relationship beyond those with her family and friends?

Hermione wasn't even sure of the answers herself, but she considered it was partly because, for some reason, she felt she just didn't have it in her. Sometimes the thought of sharing her life with someone was not, to her, even the great prospect that her books made it out to be. The difficulty was, she could never see herself being entirely transparent to another person. It was not that she thought so much of herself that she thought herself above everyone, but her issue lay in her not letting people understand her. She had friends and family, and gave of herself freely to them, but she always kept a bit behind.

There was only really one other person to whom she'd given a little bit more, but that was only because they were the same; or similar, rather. She didn't have to be self-conscious around Severus because with him she had something in common. She was not deluded. If Ron, for instance, ever found out about just how obsessed she was with reading, he would just think she was a nutter.

The point was, she had less in common with her friends now than she had ever had before. The same had happened with her parents. How sad was it when a daughter failed to have anything in common with her parents beyond the usual familial ties?

But her friends would always be her friends. Her mother would always be her mother. She was confident those bonds would never truly break, even if they altered and changed over time.

And as for herself, well... she would take comfort in the fact that it might be _lonelier without the loneliness_.

* * *

_Dear Hermione,_

_Firstly, let me say that I send my deepest regards to both you and your mother, and I hope this letter finds you both well._

_Secondly, I don't want to put any pressure on you, of course, but I would like to inform you that your job remains open when, or if, you should ever want to take it back up again. _

_Furthermore, I hope you will pay us a visit soon._

_Yours faithfully,_

_Minerva_

In light of the letter she had received from Minerva, it was perhaps foolhardy of her to come to Hogwarts, even if only for a few hours. And though she had decided she would not take her job back, she had not replied to the missive. It was foolhardy, therefore, to put herself in the position where she might be convinced to change her mind—where she might even _want_ to change her mind.

But the temptation to come for a visit had been too great. And her mother hadn't helped by mentioning the idea nearly every day.

As she stood in the Entrance Hall, looking at the hour-glasses (and noticing with some consternation the Slytherin lead) she could not deny she was happy to be back in the castle again. Although, now that she was there, she did feel a little apprehensive. Where to go? There were several options open to her. She could go up the Grand staircase and to any number of destinations—the Great hall; the staff room; her former office…

She could also turn around and go back outside—she'd like to see Hagrid at some point, after all.

Or she could head downwards and into the dungeons. She had to be honest with herself; to see a certain someone was what she really wanted. Checking her watch, she saw that there was half an hour until lessons ended for the day. Without dwelling further, she descended into the dungeons and walked towards Severus's office. He would not be there yet, but she could wait.

She sat down opposite his desk and simply looked around for a moment. The place was as dark and as gloomy as ever, but it was to be expected, really. Glancing cursorily over the surface of his quite cluttered desk, Hermione picked up the nearest book to hand, looking to pass the time and ignore her slight nerves. The book she picked up was a potions text, naturally. Settling back into her chair, she casually lifted her feet to rest on the edge of his desk and propped the book open in front of her. It was a liberty, certainly, but she did it because she knew she could.

The minutes ticked away unnoticed whilst she scanned the potion recipes contained within the text. She was looking particularly at a rather complex potion that intrigued her. It interested her because it was similar to a spell she had once used. She'd not thought before, but now she wondered if he had ever brewed and used such a potion as this. When the time was right, she'd definitely ask.

The bell soon rang, signalling the conclusion of lessons, and Hermione felt herself tense with anticipation. Within only a few moments, she heard footsteps approach and she closed her book expectantly. The handle of the door turned with a creak and then she was no longer the sole occupant of the room.

'Hello,' she said evenly, taking in first his double-take and then his briefly confounded expression.

He pushed the door shut behind him. 'Good afternoon,' he replied cordially, an element of confusion audible in his voice, but for the most part, as unflappable as ever.

He moved to sit behind his desk, and when he did, he looked pointedly at her feet with a narrowed, distasteful gaze. Hermione swallowed a smirk and lowered her feet to the floor. After placing the book back onto the desk, she folded her arms across her stomach, trying to study him without seeming inexcusably rude. He looked the same, she was happy to see. She hoped he could say the same for her, if he were so inclined.

'How's things?' she asked eventually, in a tone that made it sound like it had only been a couple of weeks since their last meeting, not months on end.

To her, he seemed mildly uncomfortable as he spoke. 'All right,' he commented, with a little shrug. 'How are you?'

'Better, thank you, as is my mother.'

'Very good…' He nodded to himself and then fell silent.

It did not surprise her that it seemed she would need to take the lead in the conversation. They hadn't spoken face-to-face in many months; it was almost like they would have to get used to each other again. Writing sporadic letters was no substitute for conversation.

'I'm here because I thought it high time we continued our practice of coincidentally-reading-the-same-book-and-then-having-a-discussion-about-it. I regret that it has been so long since the last time. To be honest, I think I have some catching up to do; I haven't read much at all lately.'

His expression flickered for a moment. 'Please don't feel obliged to—'

'Oh, don't be silly,' she admonished, nearly rolling her eyes. 'Why would I feel obligated? I stopped reading because it just didn't feel right for me to bury my head in the clouds while… you know…'

It was true. She'd hardly picked up a book while her father had been ill. Partly, she hadn't wanted to, and partly she hadn't been able to lose herself in stories while her father and mother had needed her. She hadn't wanted to push her problems from her mind, as she usually did. Her father had been more important than that. But she missed it now. She missed her harmless flights of fancy that she indulged in. She felt she might be able to conjure the enthusiasm for it again now.

To her astonishment, a faintly sheepish look passed over his face.

'What's the matter?' she asked, with a little trepidation.

He laced his fingers together and examined them for a moment. 'Have you heard that Minerva has established a book club amongst the staff?'

Hermione's felt her jaw slacken. 'A _book club_?'

He nodded.

'When? _Why_?' It was irrational, but she felt huge dismay at the fact that their hobby was no longer their sole province.

'In a roundabout way, she found out what we were doing and, to her, it was a concept she liked so much she rolled it out for everyone. So, every third Thursday evening of the month, they sit in the staff room and expound on the talents of Newt bloody Scamander and the like.'

'Don't tell me _you_ sit up there with them!' she exclaimed dismally, before she could temper herself.

Merlin, no wonder he had agreed so easily to put their combined reading venture on hold. He'd been reading other books behind her back!

On a side note, never had one of her own thoughts made her feel so irredeemably stupid.

'I mean to say,' she began weakly, 'I think it is a wonderful idea, um…'

There was a glint in his eye that she was sure signified amusement. 'I assure you, I have refused to partake in it. Their reading preferences are reprehensibly narrow. Minerva is only interested in banal Scottish history; Filius likes boring biographies; Pomona will only read books about plants, and Sibyl, well, the less said about her, the better. And as for Hagrid, I'm not even sure he can read.'

Hermione frowned reproachfully.

'In essence, I'll give it lasting no more than three or four months.'

'Do they know what it is we like to read?'

'Not really…'

She raised her eyebrows, looking for an elaboration.

He shifted in his chair and sighed. 'I left _Murder on the Orient Express _in the staff room by accident one day. Minerva found it and… read it…'

Hermione put a hand to her mouth.

'She told me she found it a bit "heavy-going".'

'There are _far_ heavier books on your shelves, let me tell you!' she said, with a small smile, amused by his grim countenance. It was no exaggeration. There was one particular book she _had_ read during her absence from Hogwarts—one she had felt she had had to read, especially when she had discovered her father already owned it. However, now was not the time to bring that subject up—it would wait for a future time.

She left the office with the assurance that he would pick their next read and forward it to her. She had wondered if he might ask if she was considering returning permanently to Hogwarts, but he did not, and Hermione should have been grateful for it, but her heart had decided to betray her and she'd ended up bringing it up herself, instead.

Being in the castle again made her feel an uncomfortable yearning for… something, and clearly, she was going to have to address it.

* * *

After Hermione had left, Severus was left there feeling, admittedly, rather stunned. He was glad to see her, and to see that she was managing in the wake of her father's passing, but it _was_ oddly strange to see her again.

He'd not expected to see her at all anytime soon, and he'd certainly not anticipated her sneaking into his office unannounced, but… she was welcome to repeat the offence as often as she liked…

And it was precisely thoughts like that which left him distinctly uncomfortable. It was no use ignoring it, however. He'd felt his useless heart thump when he'd clapped eyes on her, and it hadn't been merely from the surprise of it. He'd felt his stomach clench when he'd believed that she might have inexplicably lost her love of reading. How ridiculous was it to feel worried that she might have moved on from the pleasure of losing herself in a book?

And worse had been to come. How had he felt when she'd tentatively explained that Minerva was offering her old job back to her? He'd nearly had to bite his tongue to stop himself from selfishly telling her that she should live her own life—that her mother would not begrudge her career. Instead, he'd murmured some brusque reply about only she knowing what to do. Whether she came back or not was her own business, he'd told her. In essence, he'd gone from one extreme to the other—she'd probably stay away for good following his indifferent display.

He was not entirely sure why she had asked him those questions—it wasn't as if he had loved ones to ever be affected by his life choices. What he knew about acting for the sake others could be written on the back of a stamp. He had a sneaking feeling, however, that it might be better for him if she _didn__'__t_ come back.

The bottom line was…It had to be a damnable attraction; he hadn't felt it for many, _many_ years… but he knew what it was when it was in front of him. He'd dismissed the idea before, but he felt he would be deluding himself if he did so now.

He had always known he was not like most men. For most men, feeling stirrings of attraction towards another person, even while they loved another, was a matter of course. But it had not happened to him. It might have been a relief to look on another woman and feel something other than indifference—he might not have spent his life lost in memories of Lily otherwise.

But the fact remained that, for the majority of his life, the last thing he had wanted was to get involved with anyone. He was fine by himself. He didn't _need_ anything else. So that he'd never been attracted to anyone else had, for the most part, been a moot point.

Things were different now, though; _he_ was different. He'd managed to relinquish much of his obsession with Lily—a huge weight off his shoulders to an extent. But he was not so different that the realisation, especially this late in his life, that he was not entirely dead inside was what he really wanted to know. If anything, it made him feel a little foolish. He was pushing fifty, for crying out loud, and the first feeling of attraction he had felt in decades was for someone who could be his daughter.

Profoundly irritated, Severus got to his feet and headed for his rooms. He needed a strong palliative to the unwanted thoughts in his head. He was about to pour himself a snifter, when he turned to look at one of his bookshelves.

A brain without a heart; in the vein of Holmes, that is what he had strived to be for the longest time. What else did he admire the Great Detective for if not for his detached, unemotional character?

But could anyone ever be truly without bias? Even Sherlock Holmes, in the end, had not been the entirely frigid logician he had purported himself to be.

What the deuce was attraction to him, though? What was the point of it? It was hardly as if he knew what do with it.

And perhaps, therein lay his strength. Attraction meant little to him; it was an insignificance; a mere trifle to be dealt with.

He firmly ignored his mind automatically calling up one of the Great Detective's many perceptive quotes.

'_It is, of course, a trifle, but there is nothing so important as trifles!'_

_

* * *

_

AN: The final part will be up within a few days, I hope. Thanks for reading.

_'It would be lonelier without the loneliness' _is a line from a poem by Emily Dickinson.

_'A brain without a heart' _is how Watson describes Holmes in _The Greek Interpreter. _'_It is, of course, a trifle, but there is nothing so important as trifles!' _comes from_ The Man With the Twisted Lip, _both by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.


	3. Part 3

**There and Back Again**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**Part 3**

When she got home that night following her visit to Hogwarts, she was surprised to find her mother had cooked a big dinner for them both. Hermione entered the kitchen to see her mother pottering about with saucepans and plates, and to her, was looking brighter than she had in many, many months.

'Mum?' she questioned nervously, fearing her mother might be putting on a false front to cover up some other incident. Hermione knew she often had off-days, but they couldn't pretend they didn't happen.

Her mother, however, read her entirely. 'Don't worry, love, I'm all right. I just wanted us to have a nice evening.'

And it was a nice evening they did have. For the most part, Hermione relayed her day at Hogwarts ensuring to leave very little out. What she did leave out mostly related to Severus, but that was only because she wasn't sure just what there was to say. Her mother listened intently throughout, asking questions in all the right places, but Hermione felt there was something remaining unsaid or that they were building towards something.

Eventually, she found her suspicions to be correct when her mother revealed what she was about.

'When are you going back to teaching, Hermione?' she asked promptly, once they'd finished eating.

For one awful moment, Hermione thought her mother might have been waiting for her to leave all this time, but then sense returned to her, and she knew that would never be true. 'I don't know—'

Mrs Granger smiled to herself. 'Hermione, you loved your job, didn't you?'

Hermione nodded truthfully.

'You can't stay here for ever,' said her mother quietly. 'Well, you can, of course, but I know you don't really want to.'

'Mum—' Hermione sighed painfully, looking to contradict her, but was interrupted.

'I don't mean it like that. I mean that you want to go back to _your_ life—the life you set up. Your father is… gone, and, you know, I will have to get used to being on my own at some point.' Her mother smiled gently.

'I don't want you to be on your own.' Hermione looked down at her plate. She knew what it was like being on her own, and she could manage it, but she didn't want her mother to have to manage it.

'We wouldn't… You'd be able to visit every weekend, wouldn't you?'

'Of course, _yes_, but…' Hermione exhaled at length. She didn't want them to go back to what it had been like before.

'It is decided,' remarked her mother pragmatically. 'The new term will be starting in September; what better time for you to go back?'

'Mum—'

'No, you must do it, love, otherwise you never will, and I think that would be a great shame. You're obviously good at what you do.'

Her mother collected up the plates and patted her shoulder as she did so. Hermione simply sat there, knowing instinctively that her mother was right, but disliking it all the same. Part of her had hoped if she left it long enough, the yearning would just go, that she would get used to it. But clearly, she needed to really force herself to consider the reality of the situation she was in. Whatever happened, she would need to get a job somewhere. Maybe she could train as a Muggle teacher? No, that would never work.

The more she thought about her mother's words, however, the more she saw that she couldn't coddle her. Was it really in her mother's best interests that she become entirely dependent upon her? Her mother was in good health—there was still a life out there for her to have if she wanted it. She might never find it if they lived in each other's pockets.

But it was difficult. It was not as though she would be moving down the street—she would be moving to the other end of the country, to somewhere inaccessible to her mother. There had to be a better solution.

'Hermione,' said her mother one day, when it was clear to her that Hermione had not made up her mind. 'Your father and I were so proud of the things you achieved. Neither he, nor I, would want to see you throw it away. If any part of you wants to go back to Hogwarts, then you must.'

She did want to go back. She feared it might be selfish, but she did. And it troubled her a great deal.

But days following that conversation, she was standing outside a wooden door in the dungeons, breathing steadily. She needed to know if she had made the right decision, and there was only one person she could trust to tell her.

In her preoccupied state, she forgot to knock on the door, and instead, simply walked in. He was standing at a table, fiddling about with some potion-making contraption that she would be hard-pressed to name.

'Can't you ever knock?' Severus asked in a disgruntled voice, and she knew it meant she must have startled him.

She crossed over to him and glanced with interest at the bubbling cauldron and multitude of equipment he had set up. 'What are you doing?'

'Nothing much,' he muttered. 'Just bored.'

Hermione smiled, watching the steam wisp up from the cauldron. 'Never mind, the students will be returning in a couple of weeks.'

His scowl deepened.

'And, ah, so will I,' she said cautiously.

'I'm sorry?' He stared right at her.

'I'm coming back to teach at Hogwarts.' She stood before him and clasped her hands together self-consciously. 'At least, I think I will be, anyway.'

He did not reply immediately, but that did not worry her.

'I'm pleased to hear it,' he finally admitted. 'But, I confess, I thought you wished to remain closer to your mother?'

Hermione smiled sombrely and looked away. 'I do wish to remain near… but, I also wish to come back.'

He moved away from his work and sat down near a table covered with parchment. He indicated that she should join him, but she only wandered nearer. She did not sit, owing to a sudden restlessness of feeling.

'In all honesty, it was my mother who impressed upon me the importance of doing what I want to do.' Hermione paused momentarily and stepped nearer to the bookcase behind him, finding it easier to compose her thoughts when confronted with a wall of books. She scanned the familiar titles as she spoke quietly.

'I do feel guilty, in a way, that I would prefer to be here. I saw my friends a good deal while I was away.' She sighed. 'But I realised that you cannot go back. As much as I love my friends, we are different people now. Our common ground has gone. Theirs is family and children, and mine probably never will be that.'

She reached out and touched the spine of a particularly attractively bound book, enjoying the feel of it. Looking over her shoulder, she sent a smile towards him. 'My friends have never understood my love of books, you know, and that is because I haven't let them. They have no idea that I spend my time absorbed in novels; that subsequently, I am prone to harbouring romantic delusions and imaginings; that, like anyone else, I need some escapism. I regret that I have hidden that part of me from them.'

'Can anyone ever really know anyone? Truly?'

Hermione stirred, moving to where he sat and opting to lean against the table. 'I wonder at that, too. But I suppose the answer can only ever be 'maybe'.'

'I'm not sure that we ever really know ourselves, sometimes…'

She looked at him, vaguely surprised by that observation. 'I think you may be right.'

Hermione exhaled softly after a moment and continued speaking. 'My mother reminded me that I am a witch—that I can travel to anywhere within minutes. How do I argue with that?' She smiled wryly. 'Do you know what I hate most, though? I hate that Hogwarts has been such a huge part of my life, and yet, it will always the one thing my parents, my mother, will never know. It is the one thing that will always be a mystery to her, no matter how many times she could read _Hogwarts: A History_. I could bring her to Hogsmeade and she wouldn't even be able to see the castle, let alone anything else. It's no wonder there was such a gulf between us; I am isolated here.'

Hermione stared down at her hands. There was no way for her mother even to contact her at Hogwarts apart from via owl post. That would not do for the future; she would have to devise some other means of communication before she could feel comfortable in coming back. She might be isolated at Hogwarts, but she would not be cut-off.

They lapsed into quiet. Though she hadn't really expected him to, she was glad he hadn't decreed her selfish or recriminated her for changing her mind. Grateful, she sought to change the subject to something lighter. She had the very topic; though, it could very well backfire and leave her looking madder than a box of chocolate frogs.

She moved to perch herself on edge of the table and ignored his subsequent look. 'Severus, you know we love reading?'

'Um, I had noticed, yes…'

She placed her hands on her knees, smiling slightly. 'Have you ever transported yourself into a book?'

His moment of hesitation was enough for her.

'I have,' she revealed with a smirk.

'It's dangerous to do such things unsupervised, you know.'

Hermione ignored him. 'So, what did you think? What book did you go into?' Merlin, she hoped he hadn't thrown himself into one of his more darker and tragic novels he indulged in.

'What book did _you_ travel into?' he asked instead.

'Obviously, _North and South_; but you know, as soon as I looked down at myself and saw the skirts I wore and touched the bonnet on my head, I felt…'

'Stupid?' he helpfully supplied.

Hermione chuckled. '_Yes! _I knew it was a step too far, and actually, I found that when it came down to it, I didn't want to see that world for myself, not really. I feared it would only be a huge disappointment. I vowed never to do such a thing again.'

'At least we know there are limits to our madness.'

'True—it is a very slippery slope, after all.' A smile stretched across her mouth and she could do nothing to rid herself of it.

'What is that in aid of?' he asked suspiciously.

Hermione shrugged her shoulders, still smiling to herself and shrugged. 'Nothing… I'd hoped to hear that you had done the same.' As soon as she'd seen that recipe in the Potions text, she'd wondered if he'd attempted such a thing. It pleased her that she felt she knew him enough to divine some of his actions.

She did not fail to note that he avoided all talk of his own experience, but she wouldn't draw attention to his reticence. Not yet, anyway.

Instead, she focused on the little bubble of excitement that was blossoming inside her. Suddenly she couldn't wait to be back in the school and—

The door knocked. Hermione twisted round in surprise, just in time to see Rolanda Hooch's head appear around the door.

'Se—_oh!_ So sorry, to, ah, interrupt. Hermione, how nice to see you again.'

Hermione smiled, feeling uncomfortably aware of the glint in the eye of the Flying instructor.

'What can I do for you?' inquired Severus blandly, leaning back in his chair.

'Just wanted to tell you the rota is up for planning Quidditch practice for the new term. I know you don't like to get there last. '

Hermione couldn't quite tell, but she thought Rolanda might have smirked as she left.

Strange woman.

* * *

Following his discussion with Hermione, and after she had departed from the castle, Severus approached the staff room precisely to get at the Quidditch schedule. The door was partially open when he arrived and he paused at the sound of the voices drifiting from within. It was Hooch speaking, and he had anticipated something of the sort, but anticipating it did not lessen the irritation he felt at being proved right.

'So, I go down to his office,' she was saying, 'and who do you think should be in there with him? Hermione! No one else even knew she was here, and yet, _there she was_…'

Severus had heard enough; he pushed the door open the rest of the way and stepped over the threshold, intending to put a stop to such nonsense. Bloody Hooch and her gossiping; she drove him up the wall, sometimes. At his entrance, Rolanda looked up, and upon catching his eye, instead of going silent, she openly winked.

'Yes, there she was,' she continued, leaning in her chair towards her audience, 'practically _lying_ across his desk…'

Pomona tittered loudly, while Poppy looked genuinely scandalised.

Severus, only through years of practice, did not blush outwardly, but inwardly he quailed with embarrassment.

'That is patently _not_ what you saw Rolanda,' he spat, muttering 'you silly old hag' under his breath.

Rolanda laughed. 'Perhaps not, but we are most intrigued why our esteemed Professor Granger should rush down to see you so eagerly every time she visits.'

Severus clenched his jaw as he took his seat. He glared swiftly at the coven of nosy witches to his left, before turning his back on them to plan out Slytherin's Quidditch practices. 'The answer is simple; she cannot stand you.'

Rolanda snorted.

'In fact,' declared Severus dryly, 'she tells me the only barrier to her returning here is you.'

But there was no barrier, was there? She'd just told him so. His quill paused over the parchment as he properly digested the news. In doing so, he found himself wincing slightly. He'd better not start dreaming about her again. No, he'd have to put a full stop to that nonsense this time.

She was coming back. She'd been out there, in the world beyond Hogwarts, and had come to the conclusion that she wanted to come back.

And as he resumed scratching his quill across the parchment, he felt unaccountably smug.

Slytherin would win the Cup this year; he'd put this year's salary on it.

* * *

During her first week of teaching her classes again, Hermione felt happier than she had in a long while. She felt like things were as they should be again—back to normal. But always in the back of her mind, especially whenever she felt too light of heart, she thought of her mother. And then she couldn't help but worry.

She'd not been able to wait 'till the weekend to go home, as she had agreed with her mother. Instead, she'd arranged with Minerva that she would leave the castle for a few hours during her free afternoon on Wednesday. She Apparated directly to her old home and found her mother was not even there.

Feeling rather deflated, she'd sat and waited, trying to ignore the fact that she felt a little concerned over where her mother might be. She'd sensed there and then how ridiculous she was being.

In time, a car had pulled up outside the house heralding the arrival of her mother.

'What are you doing here?' her mother had asked in surprise once she was inside.

Hermione had smiled. 'I wanted to see you.'

She'd hugged her, then. And nothing, she was happy to note, felt awkward about it.

Once the first week was out of the way, Hermione began to feel even more settled into her old routine. Currently, she was partaking of the tea she had been summoned to to share with the headmistress.

'Are you going to join our little book club, then, Hermione? It is you I have to thank for the inspiration. I only wonder why you did not bring it to my attention in the first place!'

Hermione smiled sheepishly at Minerva. 'Oh, you know, it was only something Severus and I indulged in infrequently…'

Minerva frowned thoughtfully. 'I see… You know, I was so relieved when I heard about it. Prior to that, I thought maybe you and he were having some sort of torrid affair.'

Hermione swallowed some of her tea down into her lungs and coughed violently. '_Torrid affair_?' she gasped in between harsh breaths.

'It was silly of me, wasn't it?' Minerva laughed, before her expression turned dismissive. 'It was silly because Severus would never have you… No offence, my dear.'

Hermione only gaped.

Minerva, on perceiving Hermione's stunned expression, hurried to give reassurance. 'I just mean he wouldn't have _anyone_. He doesn't _like_ anyone. He'll probably never get over his love for poor Lily. Not that you need to worry about that; you're only colleagues, after all.'

Minerva replaced her cup onto her saucer and put it on the desk. Hermione followed suit, but only because the tea tasted suddenly awful. Was she really having this conversation? _Have you asked Severus about his feelings? w_as what she wanted to ask the headmistress.

'Some people in this life are just meant for being on their own, I think.'

Minerva sighed pensively and Hermione looked at her, slightly startled by that train of thought.

'It's a shame, perhaps, but we are what we are… Don't you think?'

Hermione looked downwards, troubled, and shrugged her shoulders. 'Maybe…'

When she saw the look in the elder woman's eye, Hermione wished she had been more definite in her answer.

_Actually, Minerva, I—_

She could not bring her confused thoughts into a coherent sentence, and in the end, just let the words come out. 'I thought once that people are destined for certain things in life… but is it really destiny? What _is_ destiny, anyway? Circumstance, I think, makes us what we are, but surely we can exercise some sort of control over circumstance, and by extension, our so-called destiny?'

Minerva looked at her searchingly. 'Change is hard, my dear; and I fear there does come a point where the desire for change is trumped by the desire to remain where one has always been. For instance, I don't think I could ever leave Hogwarts—I'm not sure I'd remember how to function without it.' Minerva smiled a half-smile. 'But we are all different; we each have our own ways.'

Hermione felt herself deflate slightly. 'I agree…'

"_Some people in this life are just meant for being on their own, I think."_

Minerva's recently spoken words echoed around her mind uncomfortably. They were words she had considered herself on occasion, but now she sought to contradict their assertion. How could anyone be _meant_ for anything? There was no one sitting up on high planning out everyone's lives. No one was meant for anything unless they themselves decreed it.

"_It was silly. because Severus would never have you… No offence, my dear."_

Her heart pulsed loudly in response to the recalling of Minerva's rash words. Would never pick her, would he? What did Minerva know? Hermione could do nothing to prevent her sudden leap to her feet, and Minerva looked up at her in surprise.

'Forgive me, Minerva,' Hermione began, trying to ignore her inner discomfort. 'I just remembered I agreed to meet one of my fifth-years for a discussion. See you at dinner.'

She fled from the office and almost tumbled down the revolving staircase in her haste. She paused for breath and could only feel a sudden terrible yearning within her.

Was she… Was this… No, it was preposterous.

Hardly knowing what to do, she let her feet take her where they may, and she ended up bursting out of the doors and into the grounds. She was… Well, she had a sneaky feeling she might be… in _love_.

Releasing a breath, she stood still and assessed herself critically.

Most of her literary heroines at this point would be lamenting their unworthiness in the eyes of their beloved. Or they would be, typically, flagellating themselves for some slight they'd intentionally or unintentionally brought against the object of their affections. They might mope and wallow in despair, but… not she. By Merlin, not she.

She was _actually in love_. And despite the sombre thinking that had led her to consider such a concept as her being in love, the very fact that she might, finally, feel something akin to love, and not platonic love either, was, paradoxically, uplifting.

God, she suddenly wanted to dance, or run up a mountain, or dive into the lake, or even get on a bloody broom and zoom off into the sky! She might even manage a few corkscrews so light-headed did she feel!

Hermione sucked in a breath of crisp air and calmed herself.

'_Love comforteth like sunshine after rain.' _

It did comfort her. For someone who'd spent such a lot of time thinking and imagining about love, but who'd never thought she'd be able to feel it herself, it was an exhilarating moment. Even despite all her reading on the subject, she still wasn't sure how she knew it was love; there was just a complete feeling of clarity within her. It had happened to her, _finally_. For so long she'd been unsure as to whether she had it within her love, or to even be attracted to someone.

She felt for someone _real_, and actually it was a relief, as odd at that probably sounded, but she had been aware of the dangers of her obsession with books. To an extent, she knew she did immerse herself in fictional lives at the expense of her own—it would probably never change—but she could see that she had been lucky, finally.

And no one else could have gained her attention like Severus did, because the point was, they were the same.

Hermione turned back towards the castle, feeling the chill of the air seeping through her robes. Just because they were the same did not mean, of course, that he felt anything for her, or indeed, would come to feel anything.

Unrequited love; how often had that been a feature of her stories? But in books, of course, unrequited love was, invariably, requited by the conclusion of the text. That plotline never got old.

She entered the staff room and headed towards the warmth of the fire. Most of her colleagues were present, including Severus, the man she… loved. He caught her eye, so she smiled a little in acknowledgement, hoping that she wasn't blushing.

Maybe it would be all right that her feelings might remain forever unrequited? It might be painful at times, but to love someone, in whatever way, was a special thing to be grateful for.

Wasn't it?

She thought of Severus and his love for Lily Evans. At first glance, it was hard to imagine why he would ever be grateful for that experience, but Hermione felt that, yes, he should be grateful, for otherwise, what kind of man would he have been without it?

But, really, what did she know? She'd never been in love before; she didn't know what to do with it now that it was there.

What was it going to be like reading her romance novels with her new perspective? Would she feel differently? Would she understand a little more? Would she want a little more? Would she hope for more? Would she, Merlin forbid, even come to resent her love for romance?

No, that, surely, would never happen.

She had a book within her robe and she took it out, smiling contentedly to herself.

She had to be going slowly round the bend, she thought wryly.

* * *

They stood together in the little grey church in Hogsmeade, the only occupants apart from a couple of others.

Hermione peered through her veil down at her white robes and could hardly believe she was really there. She glanced at her companion, her fiance, and swallowed down the nervousness in her throat.

There was a frown on Severus's face, but Hermione was not perturbed to see it, even on his wedding day.

The clergyman came forward and stood before them. _'__I require and charge you both (as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed), that if either of you know any impediment why ye may not lawfully be joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it; for be ye well assured that so many as are coupled together otherwise than God's Word doth allow, are not joined together by God, neither is their matrimony lawful.'_

Hermione held her breath at the silence that followed, but when is that silence ever broken. The clergyman did not hesitate and proceeded with the ceremony.

'_Wilt thou have this woman for thy wedded wife?'_

'_Stop! The marriage cannot go on: I declare the existence of an impediment.'_

The distinct voice echoed around the chapel, and Hermione felt her blood run cold. Severus moved not an inch; he only clutched her hand hard.

'The impediment consists in the existence of a previous marriage. Mr. Snape has a wife now living,' came the voice again.

Hermione felt her nerves thrum violently and she turned to Severus, ensuring nevertheless to remain collected. His expression was as hard as stone and his eyes were flinty. He said nothing to her, but put his arm about her waist to pull her to his side.

'Potter; Weasley,' he said harshly, by way of greeting to their intruders. 'You would thrust on me a wife, would you?'

'We have the proof here, that on the 1st of November, 1980, Severus Tobias Snape was married to Sybil Trelawney in the parish of Hogsmeade—'

Hermione started violently awake, her eyes flying open. She must have made a noise too, for when her vision cleared, there were several pairs of eyes watching her. Even Severus was looking at her, and Hermione struggled to mask what she was sure was a horrified expression.

Oh Merlin; what _had_ she got herself into?

She forced herself to get a grip and she glanced at the book resting in her lap. Whatever possessed her to pick _Jane Eyre _tonight? But of course, when she'd picked up the book earlier she hadn't known she was in love.

She sank into the cushions of her chair and put a hand to her brow.

She was pretty sure Severus did not have a mad wife locked away somewhere, but Merlin...

Grasping her book with a grimace, she raised it to smack her forehead. The brief movement of punishment was mildly satisfying. She thought about repeating the action, but was interrupted.

'Are you quite all right, Hermione?' came Pomona's slightly concerned voice from across the room.

'Er, yes,' Hermione replied, a little bit embarrassed at her behaviour. 'Perfectly fine; it's, ah, only a paperback, so… no harm done…'

Smiling weakly, she placed the book on the arm of her chair and folded her arms across her stomach. They'd be sending her for a once-over from Poppy if she carried on.

She'd not had any of those silly little, fantastical dreams in a while, truth be told. Recently, if ever Severus popped up in her dreams, it was only ever as himself, usually in some mundane situation. Hermione had taken it to mean that it was because she had stopped seeing him in her everyday life that he featured less in her daydreams. But she could see now that, actually, she preferred it when he was not dragging her down the aisle, or rescuing her from some dangerous situation before professing his undying devotion, or some other such rot.

She preferred it when they were just themselves.

She subtly surveyed him as he frowned and scowled over the essays he was marking. Of course she loved him, she probably had for a while. She'd just not had the awareness to comprehend it, preferring to believe herself perpetually uninterested, and yes, uninteresting, even.

The fact remained, however, that she did not know where it all left her.

But she would think hard, and it wasn't as if she didn't bookshelves full of different scenarios for her to work from and take inspiration.

Research.

What better justification was there for her to spend an evening going through her numerous tomes?

* * *

AN: This chapter got too long, so there is one more part still to come once it is complete. Thanks for reading.

'Love comforteth like sunshine after rain,' is a quote from William Shakespeare's _Venus and Adonis_.

Hermione's marriage dream is from _Jane Eyre_, by Charlotte Bronte.


	4. Part 4

**There and Back Again**

All characters belong to J. K. Rowling.

**Part 4**

It was his fiftieth birthday.

Usually, he did not dwell upon the passing of the years, for his advancing age was not something for him to lament. And in the main, he did not lament it now, but it did make him ponderous.

Fifty years was a long time, and fifty felt like an appropriate milestone for him to become briefly Janus-like. His formative years were exceptional, to say the least, but it was surprising how blurry they were becoming to him now. He'd never forget those very pivotal moments, of course; how could he? But there remained much he had forgotten—much that had become less important over time.

And what of the next fifty years? He wasn't sure if he hoped to live that long, but he wondered if on his hundredth birthday he might sit in this same living room and ponder in the same fashion on the course of his life. He rather thought, however, that despite the century of living, there would be even less to ponder then than there was now.

He could not see anything interrupting his established routine—nothing within his control, anyway.

At that moment, an envelope shot out through the fireplace and landed on the hearth. He could tell from where he sat that it was a birthday card and he could tell instinctively who it was from.

It was only because it was from her that he didn't throw it straight on the fire. And the reason he didn't destroy it was that he knew she probably meant it when she said 'Happy Birthday.'

She even said she had something planned for later. Despite himself, he'd spent time fathoming over what it might be. And then he would feel foolish, again. Perhaps it was a prerequisite of ageing—feeling increasingly foolish.

He felt foolish when he actively chose to sit next to her at dinner. He felt foolish when he became absurdly pleased with himself whenever she proclaimed to have loved a book he had picked for them to read. He felt foolish when he found himself turning up at her office to ask her any number of mundane questions.

But he appeared to have hit rock bottom, finally. Yesterday morning had been one of the most foolish moments of his life. Confronted with a fumbling, idiotic first-year, who'd entirely buggered up his Strengthening solution, he'd actually _censored_ himself. He'd actually bitten back his frustrated reproach and had simply Banished the mess. And why had he censored himself? Because he did not want news of his umbrage filtering back to Professor bloody Granger.

It was so insuppressibly, so irredeemably, so _indescribably_ _foolish_ that he should probably just curse himself and have done with it.

So it was his birthday. It was his fiftieth birthday and he had finally become a foolish old man.

Maybe he wasn't so different to the rest of mankind, after all.

He noticed that she smiled widely at him when he eventually managed to force himself into the Great Hall for breakfast that morning. His response could probably be best described as a pained grimace. Well, he was fifty now; he could blame it on bad digestion.

'How are you going to spend your day, then?' she enquired brightly, while he struggled to clear the fog from his mind.

'Oh, nothing,' he muttered quietly. If only his birthday had fallen on a weekday, at least he'd have had lessons to occupy him; he'd probably just have to pick up a book, now, instead.

'Well, just remember to keep your evening free, all right?'

He couldn't bring himself to say anything, so he just nodded his head minutely.

'I, ah, overheard young Mr Jenkins of Hufflepuff outside the Library yesterday, telling his friends how proud he was that he messed up a potion and you did not shout or take points.' She gave a little chuckle. 'Are you coming down with something?'

Severus sat up straight in his chair with a sigh, dropping his fork to the table. Part of him wished he wasn't about to do what he was, but he did it regardless. He got to his feet and left the hall. In his mind he could see her flushing with embarrassment, and he regretted it, but what could he do? He couldn't face her right now.

He stepped out of the castle and into the dewy morning, heading towards the Forbidden Forest. Maybe some hours away from the castle was what he needed.

Until he was some way into the forest, he did not think of anything other than where he was treading. But when he had gone as far as was sensible, he paused and sat on a fallen tree trunk. All was so still around him that, for a moment, all he could hear was his breathing. But as he listened harder, he could hear the eerie rustling and creaking of the canopy above him, and yes, some sounds that echoed on the wind that he would be hard pressed to identify. They did not trouble him, however. The forest was not unknown to him, but he kept his wand in hand, nevertheless.

He put his hand into his pocket and pulled out the small object he had shoved into his cloak the previous night when it had been handed to him by Hermione. He returned it to its proper size and studied it grimly.

It was poetry again.

_Songs of Innocence and Experience _by William Blake. Severus snorted to himself. As soon as he had seen the title, he'd been able to tell this was something typically _her_. How like her to want to dwell upon two such contrary states of being. He probably wouldn't tell her so, but he couldn't bring himself to read the _Songs of Innocence_. He'd skipped past the first collection to the _Songs of Experience_. He was probably missing the point in doing so, but frankly, he knew very little about innocence. He couldn't ever remember, even as a child, being innocent. He'd been stupid many times as a boy, but not innocent.

His avoidance of the first half of the collection also had nothing to do with him immediately spotting a certain poem listed in the _Songs of Experience. _Although, he couldn't deny it was the first poem he'd turned to. The book remained shut now, but he could recall the poem from memory—it was only a single verse long.

'_The Lily'_

_The modest Rose puts forth a thorn,  
The humble sheep a threat'ning horn:  
While the Lily white shall in love delight,  
Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright._

Never were truer words spoken, or written, he considered grimly.

But, actually, the words did not make him think solely of her… Hermione was more of a Rose, he decided, and he meant it in the best way possible. With Lily, he had always felt an irrepressible sense of his own inadequacy. While he would always see himself as fundamentally lacking certain virtues, in Hermione's company he did not have to spend the whole time preoccupied with his unworthiness. It did not signify that he valued her good opinion less than he had Lily's; it was a reflection of the fact that Hermione did not have any unreasonable expectations of him.

She'd lived through much experience as he had. He'd never had any shared experience with Lily, apart from those childhood days in the playground, and those memories had come to have less and less significance for them both as they had got older.

If he tried to behave better towards the students, it was not because he knew he had to, it was because he knew he didn't. Hermione might bridle at his strict nature, but she'd not used her increasing influence over him to force him to change his ways. Instead, he done it because he'd wanted to. It was not altruism, of course, but it was his decision nonetheless.

He put the collection of poems back into his pocket.

Above and beyond anything else, he appreciated realism. Forget losing oneself in a world of fiction—he could indulge in it, be he could not live it. He had to be real with the world, and in turn, be real with himself.

Getting to his feet, he began heading back to the castle.

The fact was, he was in love with Hermione, and the reality of the situation was… highly unlikely. Nevertheless, there it was.

But he would return, and he would apologise for his behaviour, and he would agree to whatever it was she had planned for his birthday, and throughout it all, he would be entirely pragmatic. If his feelings were unrequited, then he would accept it. Clearly, he did have her good opinion, otherwise she would not give him the time of day. It might be a bit pathetic, but actually, he was grateful for whatever was available for him.

There would be no unreasonable hopes and expectations on his side, and he hoped none on hers either, for the reality was, he was just too bloody old for that nonsense now.

* * *

Hermione spent most of the day with her mother, returning to the castle in time for dinner. The day had not been a particularly good one. Severus had stormed out on her at breakfast, and her mother had not been in the best of spirits either. She had planned on talking to her mother about the little complication she had developed with regard to the Potions master. In fact, she had been looking forward to the moment when she could finally say to someone that she had fallen in love.

But when faced with the opportunity, she couldn't bring herself to do it. Not that she thought her mother would begrudge her any potential happiness. It just seemed a little selfish in the circumstances. Instead, she had thrown herself in at the deep end and had started a conversation about her father. It was not that they never talked of him, but Hermione had begun to see that it was easier to leave certain things unsaid. Easier perhaps, but not beneficial, as she forced herself to realisel. At first, her mother had looked uncomfortable at the direction of their conversation, but in time, her expression had lightened and she had smiled at memories of the past.

In any case, by the end of the day, Hermione was feeling a little wrung out and she was beginning to regret the idea she had had for Severus's birthday. She noted that the man himself came in slightly tardy for dinner that night and it further dampened her enthusiasm for what she had planned. Considering his behaviour this morning, it seemed likely that she had misjudged his attitude towards his birthday. He seemed more bothered than she could ever remember of past years. But then, she'd never got personally involved in it before.

She did not get to speak to him during dinner, and afterwards, she retreated to her rooms in order to check everything was set up correctly. Still she wondered if she had done the right thing, though. But she told herself that it might go well and at least that would be a good end to an otherwise difficult day.

Ignoring her doubts, she ensured everything was to her liking and then headed in the direction of the staff room. Severus was sitting in his usual chair, reading the _Evening Prophet _when she went inside. Hermione hesitated; she hadn't really thought of an excuse for getting him to join her, but the truth would have to suffice.

Wiping her clammy hands on her robe, she approached him, hoping his mood had improved in the time since this morning. 'Severus, have you got a minute? I've got something I'd like to show you.'

Before Severus could reply, a nearby Rolanda interrupted in a sly undertone, '_Oh_, _I bet she has_.'

Hermione automatically looked in the direction of the sound and saw the flying teacher hiding behind her newspaper. Pomona sat beside her, studiously looking into her tea and biting her lip fiercely. Hermione felt like her whole body was blushing and she searched uselessly for some witty rebuff. Nothing was forthcoming, however.

Her blushes were saved, however, when Severus stood up, making a noise of compliance. 'Certainly,' he drawled, 'but I need a moment.'

So saying, he blithely removed his wand and aimed it at the unsuspecting Rolanda. A curling light crept out of his wand and wisped around its target.

'Ready?' he asked, putting away his wand.

'Um, yes,' replied Hermione, not knowing whether it was all right to smile or not.

Pomona looked sideways at Rolanda with a pitying expression on her face, and as Hermione left the room, she heard Rolanda whisper to the Hufflepuff, 'He's hexed me, hasn't he?'

'Two words,' said Severus, once they had passed into the hallway. '_Sticking Charm_.'

An entertaining vision of Rolanda Hooch stuck in her chair until the charm wore off helped stave off the discomfort of original jibe. And discomfort there was. What had Rolanda meant by it? Was she transparent to her colleagues? Did they think she was pining after the Potions master? That she was trying to ensnare him?

Merlin, did they pity her? Hermione was not stupid; it was obviously clear to anyone that she was not possessed of much seductive prowess. She was just not that sort. They probably entertained themselves with imagining her desperately trying any number of trite clichés in which to gain a smidge of attention from the man.

'I, ah, did not mean to cause you any offence this morning.'

She blinked and her embarrassed thoughts floated away. 'Oh, that's all right.' She smiled a little at his doubtful expression. She did not appreciate such behaviour, but actually, she'd learned a long time ago not to take his brusque ways personally. She was just pleased to see he'd mellowed somewhat for the evening. 'Where have you been all day?'

'Nowhere much,' he answered vaguely, and Hermione did not press the issue, although she wished to.

Arriving at her door, she ushered him into her living room and then stood looking at him expectantly. He stopped next to her and narrowed his eyes.

'You have a television in your room,' he observed flatly, when she did not say anything.

Hermione nodded enthusiastically and stepped over to it. 'On my last visit to the Burrow, I got talking to Arthur. You see, he has been secretly working on trying to get televisions to work on magic. Unfortunately, he didn't realise that there is a multitude of other systems you need in order to receive a signal for television channels. Also, when Molly found out that not only would it be illegal in the Wizarding world to have a modified Muggle television, but that it would also be illegal in the Muggle world for them to watch telly without a licence, she put a stop to it.'

She did not fail to notice that his eyes were beginning to glaze over, so she hurried on. 'Anyway, I, ah, rather saw something in the project. Arthur had managed to find a way of powering the telly without electricity and so I copied him to get this working.' She pointed at the rectangular box atop the telly. 'It's a DVD player—to play Muggle films.'

He shrugged. 'You've lost me.'

'I know we love to read, but have you ever watched a filmed adaptation of one of your favourite books?'

He shook his head slowly.

'I got into it when I moved back in with my parents. It's interesting, I promise; I thought you might like to try it?'

She could hardly tell from his expression what he was thinking, but she hoped he did not think her entirely stupid. He glanced downwards and she saw him take a step towards a wooden chest that she had sitting near the television. To her consternation, she realised she'd left the lid open.

Reaching into the chest, he pulled out a handful of DVD cases and Hermione nearly winced at the sound of the contents clattering together. He straightened and raised an eyebrow, sorting through the pile he held, reading each title aloud in a sardonic voice. _'North and South; Jane Eyre; Wuthering Heights; Sense and Sensibility…_' He peered back into the chest. 'To name but a _very_ select few, indeed.'

He stilled for a moment and then put down the cases in his hand to rummage further. 'What the…?' he began, collecting up further selections, which he counted each in turn, before looking at her as if she were completely ridiculous to him. 'You have _six_ different versions of _Jane Eyre_?'

Hermione bit her lip sheepishly and shrugged her shoulders. 'I think it might be a disease, you know.'

Severus snorted. 'One you are wilfully trying to infect me with, I might add.' He shook his head. 'Anyway, I will certainly _not_ be drawn into watching them with you.' He glanced at the covers with barely disguised disdain.

'I never expected you to.' Hermione threw herself down onto the sofa with a wistful sigh. 'You wouldn't be able to appreciate them the way I do.' Visions of men clad in riding boots and top hats swam before her eyes. There was definitely something to be said for being able to see one's favourite stories brought to life by something other than one's own imagination. If possible, she was slightly more obsessed with Mr Darcy than she had ever been; hitherto, she'd not thought such a feat possible.

Looking sideways, she found her companion looking at her with an almost contemptuous expression.

'Come and sit,' she ordered, knowing he was intrigued by the idea from the fact he hadn't ridiculed it, only her choice of films. 'You will enjoy it.'

'I always hated the television, you know,' he said grumpily, but nevertheless sitting down.

'And when was the last time you watched it?'

He was silent for a moment. 'Thirty or more years ago.'

Hermione gave a snort. 'Just give it one chance; that is all I ask. I would remind you to bear in mind that adaptations of books are never going to be entirely faithful to the source material, so try not to be offended if you spot such a thing. Oh, and furthermore, you may laugh at my six versions of _Jane_ _Eyre_, but do you know how many adaptations of the Sherlock Holmes stories there are?'

'How many?' he asked blandly.

'Hundreds.'

He looked sharply at her. '_Hundreds_?' he scoffed.

'I've researched it,' said Hermione matter-of-factly. 'Old ones, new ones, faithful ones, not-so-faithful ones, entirely modern ones, silly ones, foreign ones… the list goes on.'

If she were not mistaken, his pupils actually dilated at her words. She could tell he was filing the information away from the slight pensive turn of his expression.

'So, what will we watch?' he demanded in time, trying to sound put upon.

Hermione hesitated. This was the crux of the matter. 'Well, ultimately it is up to you, but…' She reached down beside her chair and removed a small bag. Pulling out the DVD from within, she quickly handed it to him before she lost her courage.

He took it, but only stared at it.

'It's, um, it's the film version of _The Spy Who Came in From the Cold_,' explained Hermione tentatively. 'It's an old film, a black and white one from the sixties… I found it amongst my father's collection…'

She watched his jaw tighten as he turned the box over in his hand. Breathing deeply, Hermione ploughed on. 'You, ah, you never told me what your favourite book was when I first asked you. I didn't want to badger you about it if you didn't want to tell me, but I think I've worked it out. That is your favourite, isn't it?'

She nodded towards the title in his hand and he looked at her in mild surprise.

'How did you work it out?'

Hermione smiled a soft smile. 'It's the way you organise your bookshelves. I sort mine alphabetically within genres, but yours, I noticed, were seemingly shelved at random. However, over time I began to notice that each of the books you selected for me to read _were_ shelved in an order—an order of preference, as I later assumed it to be. So what could your favourite book be if not the first one on the shelf?'

He gave a concessionary nod of confirmation.

The reason, however, that she had noticed such a pattern was precisely because he had never given her _The Spy Who Came in From the Cold _to read. And following that realisation, she had wondered each time he had picked a reading, why it was never that one. What was it about that book that he wished to hide from her?

'I wanted to know what you saw in it,' she admitted. 'And during my time away from Hogwarts it was one of the few books I did read.'

She watched him earnestly, afraid he would think her interfering and nosy, but she was prepared to defend herself, should she need to.

All he said, however, was, 'I see.'

Hermione had read many, many books in her lifetime, but reading the spy novel had been an entirely different reading experience than she was used to. A more grim, dark and desperate story she had probably never read. And for the longest time she had struggled to ascertain why he would put himself through the agony of the story, for that is what she had thought it must be like for him. But then she'd watched the film with her father and, at the end, her father had wryly remarked, 'It's not _James Bond_, is it?'

Severus didn't have _James Bond _novels on his bookshelves, and until then, she hadn't understood the significance of that. How could he with personal experience of, yes, the dirty, thankless world of spying, place himself in a world of glamorous stunts, fast-cars and fast women?

And she had understood, then, why he liked such a desolate book. It was because it was _real_.

Why she was suggesting on his birthday, of all days, that he revisit a complex source of what she could only assume might be troubled personal reflection was questionable. But she had felt it was time they addressed the issue.

'We don't have to watch it together, you can—'

He stirred beside her. 'It's fine; put it on.'

Hermione did as bidden, hoping she were not making some big mistake. She settled back into the cushions and folded her arms across her stomach, realising that she was mentally steeling herself. But he made no comment or movement throughout the entirety of the film. Whether he was transfixed by the whole process or whether he was simmering with anger at her placing him in this situation, she could not tell. She hoped it was the former.

For her own part, the viewing was uncomfortable. She could make her own parallels and metaphors from the story to what had happened during the war. Did he make the same ones? What did he think when spy Alec Leamas realises he's been set-up and used by his own side?

And when Alec unleashes his angry tirade at the end. How did he feel about that?

"_What the hell do you think spies are? Moral philosophers measuring everything they do against the word of God or Karl Marx? They're not! They're just a bunch of seedy, squalid bastards like me: little men, drunkards, queers, hen-pecked husbands, civil servants playing cowboys and Indians to brighten their rotten little lives. Do you think they sit like monks in a cell, balancing right against wrong?"_

By the time the film had ended, Hermione seriously wished she had forgotten the whole idea in the first place. She'd wanted to show him films, and she had wanted him to enjoy a different experience, but now that she had, she didn't know what to say. So she stared at her hands instead, uselessly.

'It was all right,' was the crisp comment to her left.

She started in surprise and looked at him. 'I'm sorry?'

'The film; not entirely as I picture it in my head, but yes, it was all right.' At her expression, he gave a soft chuckle. 'It's fine, you know. Yes, it is my favourite book, and yes, there is much within it I can personally relate to, but… it's not _quite_ the same. The reality of my world was far different to that of Alec Leamas'. I can appreciate the story for what it is—well-written, engaging, shocking—above and beyond my personal affinity to it.'

Hermione nodded thoughtfully, but her expression remained unconvinced.

'I've no doubt the ending seems very grim to you, but actually, I don't see it to be so very depressing. When Liz is killed going over the Berlin wall, Leamas is presented with the prospect of either having nothing to live for, or having something to die for. His final triumph, after a life answering to others, lay in choosing for himself the latter.'

Hermione found her throat to be inexplicably dry as she digested his words. She wasn't sure she'd ever heard him talk like that before. He glanced away when she could do nothing but watch him. Eventually she cleared her throat and struggled to speak. 'Does… Is that why, in the Shack, you did not—'

He raised a hand to forestall her words. 'We don't always have to draw connections to our own lives, Hermione.'

She wasn't convinced. It made sense to her, finally. He'd not put up a fight that night in the Shack because he'd rather have had something to die for, than have nothing to live for.

He was surveying her and his voice was low when he spoke. 'But I didn't die, did I?'

Hermione shook her head tightly. 'Only through circumstances beyond your control, though.'

He lifted his shoulders in a casual shrug. 'And that, my dear, is why books remain just books. Life can be infinitely much more convoluted, when it wants to be.'

'I suppose…'

Severus got to his feet and crossed over to examine the television. Hermione knew he wanted to know how she had got it to work.

'It was not an unworthy experiment,' he muttered to himself. 'Not without enjoyment.'

Hermione also stood, snorting with disbelief. 'Only you would enjoy something so depressing, while I feel like…' She trailed off self-consciously. If she'd hoped to attain a better understanding of him through this exercise, then she'd probably achieved her aim. But, there were new intrigues floating around her mind now. Some that centred around her; some that centred around him; some that centred around her mother…

He turned around, looking vaguely concerned. 'Look, don't tell me you are now hypothesising over what it is _you_, or even I, have that is worth living for? Such philosophising is all well and good in the name art, or literature, or whatever, but actually… Sometimes it is practical just to be and to just get on with things. We cannot always judge ourselves in such abstracted terms… otherwise, where would we be?'

Hermione felt uncomfortable, all of a sudden, and was afraid of what she felt she must say. 'I know,' she whispered unsteadily, 'but don't you ever wonder what it might be like? To have some—'

He bristled visibly. 'I have something to live for; my job is—'

'Someone,' she interrupted swiftly. 'To have _someone_ to live for. I'm not saying anything so dramatic as there's no point to life without another person in it, but still, don't you wonder what it is like?'

'Do I wonder like _you_ do, you mean?'

She saw him glance with distaste at her books and she sighed sadly. 'Forget my romance novels—'

'What of your mother? You have someone important in your life.'

Hermione resisted the urge to goggle at him. She did not like the insinuation behind his words one bit. She shook her head. 'You don't understand.' Had she upset him because he was reminded that the only person he had ever wanted to be with was long gone? The thought made her shrink somewhat and she sought to backtrack. 'Forget it; it doesn't matter.'

She turned her back to him and pointlessly began tidying and straightening her exercise books and essays stacked on her table. She cursed herself for even bothering. Hadn't she resigned herself to being on her own? She was fine as she was.

But she'd wanted to say those words because she wanted clarity between them. She didn't want to waste time on hopes and imaginings and wonderings anymore. She'd given a good deal of time to that already.

She heard the door close behind her and she spun around to find herself alone. Well that was it—her one failed attempt at initiating some sort of understanding between them. Maybe she could have been more straightforward in her appeal, but the man wasn't stupid. Why else would she start a conversation with him about having someone to live for? Perhaps her expectations of him _were_ too high, but… He'd known she had not been merely philosophising, otherwise he would not have got so shirty with her.

She sighed. Never mind him forgetting about it, she should forget about it, too.

She didn't see him again until the following evening. After lessons, no sooner had she settled down into an armchair in the staff room with her book, he had walked into the room himself. Hermione pretended not to have noticed and continued to keep her eyes fastened on the page. She was aware, however, that he sat nearby, and gradually came to realise that he was watching her obtrusively.

Though she determined not to rise to it, her skin tingled uncomfortably with self-consciousness and she wished he would stop. What would the others think of his blatant perusal if they noticed? The last thing she wanted was Rolanda making more sly comments at her expense.

Eventually, when she could hold it in no longer, she raised her head and looked at him. 'Something wrong?' she asked in a flat voice.

He gave a little shrug, unfolding a newspaper. 'Just wondered how long you would ignore me.'

'I wasn't,' Hermione retorted. 'I am reading…'

There was silence between them for a long time, and Hermione had nearly succeeded in forgetting he was there when he spoke in barely more than a whisper. 'If I admit to regret that I cannot be what you would like me to be, may we move on?'

Hermione snapped her head towards him in shock. 'What?' she asked rudely, unable to mask her surprise.

He only looked at her as if to say 'You heard what I said.'

Glancing around their environs, Hermione lowered her voice. 'Have I missed one of our conversations, somehow? When have I ever specified what I would like you to be?' She looked at him inquisitively.

'_You_ don't need to specify it,' he remarked, leaning over and plucking the book from her hand, which he promptly closed shut and dropped back into her lap, nodding at the cover. 'It's all in there.'

Hermione looked down at the book with a frown. It was _North and South_, again. She'd been reading her favourite passages throughout the day as a little pick-me-up.

'I don't know how to do any of that—how to be any of that,' he impatiently muttered. 'There's no point making any bones about it. The quicker we both accept it…'

Suddenly she understood what he meant, but it was several moments before she spoke, wanting to get the words right in her head before verbalising them. 'Severus, I know we joke about how nuts we are sometimes, but I do have my head screwed on properly.' She lifted up the book and studied it. 'Why do most people read fiction? Why do people even _write_ fiction? It's because we all wonder what it's like to do certain things, or to be certain people, or to be in certain situations, and in books we can be all those things. In books, anything can happen. _Nothing_ is impossible when the world is confined to the written word. But… it never will be real.'

To emphasise her words, she leant down and slid her book under her chair, away from view. She turned to him, and on seeing he was listening earnestly, she continued, hoping she was on the right track. 'I'm not saying that I have never fantasised about having a man sweep me off my feet, literally or figuratively, but do I want it from you? Do I want _you_ to go around brooding over wounded pride because we have had some ridiculous misunderstanding? Do I want you to break out into a romantic soliloquy detailing my looks and my nature? Do I really want to know in such fervent, melodramatic detail how attracted you are to me?'

Hermione shook her head, smiling slightly. 'No, I don't, because it would, frankly, be _weird_; wrong even.' She chuckled to herself at his blank look. 'No, believe me, I have imagined it and it is not right.'

'You've imagined it?'

'Oh yes; my imagination can be a bit overactive while I'm asleep.'

'I see,' he said simply, but there was a faraway look on his face.

Hermione watched him, not feeling as hopeful as she would have liked. Did he fear he would be a disappointment to her?

'We can't think in terms of stories, Severus, like you said.' In her mind, she thought of her mother and what had happened to her. 'Stories might last forever, but precious little else does; don't you think?' She smiled wistfully. 'People like Mr Thornton or Mr Darcy do not exist, and probably never have. If they did, we wouldn't need to read stories about them.'

He looked torn for a moment. 'That's as maybe, perhaps, but… I still don't really know how to… to be… you know.'

'Nor I, Severus; nor I.' It was the truth.

There was a rather solemn look on his face as she watched him, and she decided to be forthright. If he did not agree with her, well then, she would have to be satisfied either way. 'I want to learn, though. That is what I have really hoped for.'

She forced herself to meet his gaze, so that he knew in no uncertain terms what she meant. She was sure he felt the same; if he would just admit it.

He proceeded to give the smallest nod she had possible ever seen, but it was definitely a nod. 'I won't deny I have not thought about it either.' He sighed quietly. 'Well, I suppose… if you don't expect me to wax lyrical about your virtues, or to carry you about when you take a slight twist to your ankle, or to ride a horse, amongst other things, then I think I might… be able to manage.'

Hermione bit her lip, holding back a smile at his self-deprecating tone of voice. 'Before I agree to these terms, however, I would like to say that _some_ form of lyricism on occasion would be appreciated.'

The corners of his mouth turned down with disapproval, but there was an understanding glint in his eye, nevertheless. 'I suppose I will have to see what I can do. Is that agreeable?'

Hermione held out her hand decisively. 'Deal,' she declared brightly.

Severus took her hand to seal the deal and Hermione clasped it tightly, noting with studious attention the warmth and feel of it. The simple act felt wonderful—_she_ felt wonderful, all of a sudden.

When she took her hand back, she smiled encouragingly. Everyone knew how important the handshake was in terms of establishing the first contact! How many of her heroines had been left so troubled following a brief handshake or physical touch?

She thought they'd passed the first stage rather well, actually, especially if the faint colour on his cheekbones was anything to go by.

When the staff room began to fill up with chatter, they took their leave. Hermione didn't want to say anything so outlandish as that she suddenly felt 'alive' at the prospect of a change in her life, as that would be to dismiss all that had gone before, and that, she felt, would not be right.

But she felt, expectant and optimistic, and excited, even. It was something else to look forward to in life. Whether it would be a fulfilment of what she had always secretly hoped for, she did not know.

It would be worth finding out, though.

Meanwhile, back in the staff room, _North and South _remained lying hidden and forgotten on the floor under the armchair. It may have lain there indefinitely, if not for a conscientious house-elf discovering it whilst cleaning one morning, who then dutifully returned it to a profusely grateful and greatly self-admonishing Arithmancy mistress.

* * *

**Six months later**

Severus turned over the page of his book and then, holding it one hand, began patting the bed covers with his other hand. He was looking for his bookmark. He lifted the quilt and checked to the side of him. There was nothing. Merlin, he was for ever losing the damned thing! Disgruntled, he surreptitiously reached for the corner of the page and—

'Don't even think about it,' came a warning voice to his right.

Scowling at his companion, he placed the book face down on the bed for it to stay open on the right page. Then, he got up in order to complete his original task of carrying out his last check of the night on the potion he had brewing.

Hermione, he'd found, had very particular ideas about how to treat books.

When they'd taken their book club to the next level, that is, reading the same book _together_, she'd nearly had a heart attack when she'd seen him fold down the top corner of a page to keep his place in the book.

'Oh, Merlin! I never knew you were one of those!' she had exclaimed with indignant disappointment.

'One of _what_?' he had asked contemptuously and, also, a little defensively.

'One of those people who uses the corner of the page as a bookmark! I can't stand it!'

He'd only been able to look at her stupidly. 'Books don't hurt, you know.'

'Yes, but it spoils them having all bent pages. Why can't you just use a piece of parchment if you don't have a bookmark?'

'Are you insane, woman?' he'd queried, purposefully opening and closing his book in such a way as to break in the spine, to such successful effect that she had actually flinched.

In his office, Severus took a moment to stir the gently simmering potion several times.

In any case, he'd been made to use a bookmark now. She'd been known to get a bit het up otherwise. To be fair to her, however, she freely admitted her absurdity. Still, it was worrying, actually, how acquiescent he could be to her whims. He'd never thought passivity would be in his repertoire, but there was a good possibility that he liked indulging her.

It was all right for him to admit it to himself, though, and maybe a little bit more cryptically to her as well; just as long as no one else discovered his weakness. They put up with enough teasing as it was, good-natured though it may be. He considered that there would have to come a time when they would cease to be a novelty for everyone else to enjoy.

Satisfied his brew was at the stage it needed to be, Severus extinguished the candles and headed back to his bedroom. He closed the door behind him and, without removing his dressing gown (reading in bed in the chilly dungeons could be dangerous without adequate protection) he got back into bed and picked up his book. It was only when his movements ceased that he heard the sniffling.

'What the…?' He looked at her blankly. 'Who has died?' he asked impatiently.

'No one,' Hermione mumbled unconvincingly, wiping furiously at her face.

'You _always_ start blubbing whenever something tragic happens, so there's no point denying it.'

'I don't want to spoil it for you…'

He sent her an ironic look.

'I can't help it if you are a slow reader.'

'I am _not_ a slow reader,' he uttered severely. 'Now, tell me who is dead.'

'Fine; if you must know, Gandalf has died fighting the Balrog at the bridge of Khazad-dum,' she explained in a small voice.

'Is that all?' Severus turned back to his book with a sniff. In a bid to broaden their horizons, they were now reading books neither of them had ever read before. He wasn't quite sure as to their decision to chance their luck in the Fantasy section of the bookshop. In his opinion, _The Lord of the Rings _was beginning to seem a little bit far-fetched—and he was not even halfway through.

'Gandalf was a good character,' she admonished in reply to his dismissal.

'He'll be back, I bet. There's two more of these bloody books still to go, remember?'

He heard her huff and puff to herself at his grumpiness. He was dimly aware of her putting her book away and then settling down for the night, but he kept his concentration on the pages before him. Next thing he knew, however, she was on his pillow, her hand creeping to untie his dressing gown.

'I haven't got to the end of this chapter yet,' he informed her warningly as he read.

Her hand fell away. 'Oops, my mistake,' she said sincerely, moving away slightly. 'Thought you were finished.'

He let her lie there patiently for a few minutes, while he struggled not to laugh not only at her absurdity, but at his own as well. Tonight, though, he didn't much care about ridiculous hobbits or even wizards. If he'd been reading one of his more engrossing reads he might have carried on, but this time he snapped the book shut and (he should have known better) rather _too_ zealously threw it on the floor.

'Finished…' he tried to announce, but trailed off in a daze as he watched Hermione shoot up from the bed and look towards where he had thrown the book.

'What did you do that for?' she asked with a deeply disappointed frown, taking out her wand and levitating the book carefully onto his bedside table.

He looked between her and the book, making sure he really had witnessed what he thought he had. 'Would you like time to check for bruises? Or should we just convey the poor thing straight to Poppy?'

He saw her hide a smile as she lay back down on her pillow. 'You'll be the only thing needing to be conveyed to Poppy if you keep making fun of me.'

'Tell me,' said Severus conversationally, ignoring her words. 'If Hogwarts were to go up in flames tomorrow and you had one opportunity to get back inside the castle, what would you save? My good self? Or your books?'

He tried not to laugh at her outraged expression as she sat up and glared at him. 'You, you daft pillock; what kind of person do you think I am?'

Severus shrugged defensively. 'Just checking…'

A smile spread across her face suddenly and she reached to clasp his hand. 'Anyway, you know I've warded all of my books against anything hazardous, including fire.'

'And flood, and spells, and theft, and damp, and mould, and…'

She threw her head down on his chest. 'Shut up.'

Severus smirked as he sought to rearrange her hair, which was nearly smothering him. 'Or what?'

'Or I will make you wear breeches and riding boots to our wedding.'

Severus felt himself blanch. He knew what breeches were; he'd seen grown men poncing about in them, sometimes with tights, and flouncy shirts, and even _high-heels, _when he had been made to suffer through a visualised adaptation of one of her infernal period romances. Why on earth was _that_ attractive?

He felt her shaking and he knew she was laughing at him.

'I think you'd look lovely in them,' she said hurriedly.

Just the mere thought made his dignity quail with indignation. He stared down at the top of her head in horror, whilst admitting to himself silently that, sometimes, he was actually a little bit afraid of her.

It was true, because, for one thing, he hadn't even asked her to marry him yet. In fact, he hadn't ever mentioned it.

But he would marry her, if that's what she wanted. The idea didn't sound so very terrible to him, after all.

And although he took pleasure in indulging her, he had most definitely not lost any sense of his reason.

By Merlin, there would be _no_ breeches at _any_ wedding with his name on it.

_None_.

And not a horse for a hundred mile radius, either!

None!

FIN

* * *

AN: There it is; I hope everyone has enjoyed this series of stories. This will probably be my last fic for the forseeable. Not only have I depleted my ideas, but my crappy job requires more than its fair share of my time, unfortunately. Thanks very much for reading and reviewing : )

_The Spy Who Came in From the Cold_, by John le Carre. The film came out in 1965 and starred Richard Burton.

_Songs of Innocence and Experience_, by William Blake (1789; 1784).

_The Lord of the Rings_, by J. R. R. Tolkien.


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